Misanthrope
by CarmenTakoshi
Summary: In a world and space wrought by war, Nicol Amalfi knows that his life is forfeit the moment he steps out, and yet he cannot help but hope that maybe, just maybe someone may be out there who can set things right, if only for himself.
1. Prologue : Athrun

A/N: Yes, new fic. Yes, Nicol-centric. Yes, I love Nicol. D There are just not enough Nicol fics on this site. Yes, it's late at night and I have to get up at four thirty tomorrow so I won't say much except for a GARGANTUAN THANK YOU to my beta reader Storms-winter. Lotsa luff, dearie.

Just so you all know, it's a fic about Nicol/other ZAFTees days of the C.E. 71 war, before series and could be a bit integrating the series as well, for the over-used Athrun and Kira angst. Also, a bit different than my usual style, but I like it and Storm likes it, and if you don't then, well, that's your opinion. Just don't diss me about it. If I write, it's first and foremost for the satisfaction and twisted fangirl pleasure at making the characters do my bidding. Happy readings! -salutes-

Disclaimer: Hajime Yatate and Yoshiyuki Tomino own Gundam SEED, not Carmen Takoshi.

* * *

_**Prologue: Athrun**_

When his father had enrolled him in ZAFT's military academy two years ago, Nicol Amalfi had never thought that he would ever have the actual chance to step onto the battlefield.

But then C.E. 71 came, and it was war.

He had also never thought that he would ever hear the name of Chairman Zala's only son on the tail end of the first day's roll call. But there it was.

"Athrun Zala."

"Sir!"

Nicol had never known the Zala heir's name until then. It was a strange name, _Athrun, _and yet it rolled easily off the tongue when pronounced.

Nicol found out at once that he enjoyed pronouncing it. Athrun. Athrun. Athrun Zala. Zala Athrun. It sounded nice either way, forwards or backwards. Athrun. _Athrun. _Whispered or out loud.

Nicol promised himself, childishly perhaps, that if he ever had a son, he would name him Athrun.

Athrun Amalfi.

"…"

Maybe not.

Months passed. The training was difficult. Every evening, as Nicol flopped onto his cot, his muscles and bones would protest with inane vehemence. He would listen patiently to their screams of _'we wanna die!_'then he would drag himself to the washroom that he shared with three other boys—all whom where about a year older than him—clean up, and flop back into bed.

Sometimes, his body would ache so much that sleep fled for the night, as though his hurt was contagious. Whenever this happened, Nicol would comfort himself with the sound of Athrun Zala's name. Even if it was nothing more than a fragile whisper, spoken like a secret to the coarse bed sheets, it did not matter. _Athrun. Athrun Zala. Goodnight, Athrun Zala, wherever you are. I hope you're better at this than I am._

Nicol did not have to hope. He knew that Athrun excelled, if not to say thrived, in the military. Their trainers praised him, pronouncing him more than good enough to be Chairman Zala's son.

"_Your father should be proud."_

"_He is, Sir, thank you."_

For Nicol, it was much different. Higher, Amalfi! Steadier, Amalfi! You're lagging, Amalfi, pick up the pace! Better, Amalfi, do it better, better, _better!_

_My name is Nicol! Not Amalfi!_

But he could not say that. If he did, they would make him do push-ups in the mud and rain _and _deprive him of supper. Then they would tell his father, and Father would not be pleased.

So Nicol kept his silence, and only spoke to murmur Athrun's name into the night.

A full year of training had come and gone, complete with its everyday aches and bruises. He heard some of the other trainees conversing in the hallways as they made their way out of the facility. Athrun Zala had given their superiors the best show of military skill and discipline seen in years. No surprise there. _Congratulations, Athrun Zala_, whispered Nicol. Surely, _he _had given their superiors the worst show seen in centuries.

He half-hoped that they would never let him return after the week-long leave.

Nicol heard some people snigger as his mother granted him a rib-crushing hug the second he had set foot off the transport. It irked him somewhat, but there was little that the others did that did _not_ irk him. He was constantly reminded of his status as "dregs of the ZAFT military", but in his mother's arms, it felt like such a trivial thing, and he dismissed it for the week.

Children cannot mature in such a short lapse of time, however, and once Nicol had regained the transport to the hellhole mislabelled "ZAFT Military Facility", they approached him.

"Hey, fairy boy, sure you're finished saying good-bye to your mommy?"

Fairy boy. He had heard that once in a video game, but the speaker was not a cute redhead and he was not a juvenile hero with a talking ball of light as a stalker.

"Hey, I heard you failed the first marksmanship exam. Is that true?"

Now was the time to say something smart-alecky, something sharp and witty and so scathing that they would run off as though fire was at their heels.

"…I don't know."

Pssch. That was the sound of the fire dying from laughing its guts out.

One of them pushed him. All of the seats had been taken when he had arrived, so Nicol had been forced to stand, the thin fingers of his right hand coiled around a random metal pole while his other hand grasped the handle of his bag. He dropped the bag as he stumbled, and another kicked it away as he grabbed wildly for it. All of the insults that Nicol knew bubbled into his throat but stopped there, replaced by a single, choked grunt of pain as yet another trainee kneed him in the side. Hurt. Stars. He had hit his head. There was wetness on his cheeks.

"Are you crying? Hey, look, Souichi, he's crying!"

"Told you he was a fairy."

"I'm not a fairy!" Nicol protested hoarsely, holding his side where he felt as though it had caved in. "Leave me alone!"

His bag, where was it? He searched, but his vision was pathetically blurred. He took a tentative step then fell as the transport ship lurched. No, _he_ had lurched. Right onto the floor.

"_We wanna die!"_

So do I.

"Hey…stop it! _Stop it!_"

Instantly, the crowd of excited trainees parted. Nicol saw boots on the linoleum floor, then knees, and a pale, but not overly so, hand in his vision. On his shoulders.

"Are you okay?"

Soft voice. Blue hair.

Athrun Zala.

"Ath…"

The lone syllable sounded horrible and Nicol winced. Athrun must have taken that for pain, for he slung his arm around his waist and helped him into a seat that had become magically vacant.

"You shouldn't let them push you around like that."

Athrun's breath was warm on his ear.

"I know."

That was all that he heard from Athrun Zala during the rest of the trip, but they remained side by side until they reached the dorm hallway. Nicol murmured his thanks, and Athrun smiled, accepting them with a whispered word of his own. He asked his name.

"_Nicol Amalfi? I'm Athrun Zala."_

"_Yeah, I know, Chairman Zala's son."_

Athrun's smile had soured a bit upon the mention of his father, and Nicol had instantly apologized, so profusely that the other had laughed, dismissing it. Then he had left.

Nicol decided that he liked Athrun Zala's laugh even more than he liked his name.

He also decided that he would not be pushed around any longer.

If anyone ever narrated his story afterwards, Nicol would have liked his second year at the academy to be described as "brazenly bold" (never mind the redundancy, it sounded good anyway, right?) or "heroic, albeit prideful". Nicol had never considered himself overly prideful, but what better way to start? Humiliation was motivation enough, and Athrun…

Athrun Zala was the friendly rival, the merciful enemy, and the ultimate goal.

His trainers noticed the change almost immediately, though they made a show of indifference. His body noticed too, and complained. And complained. And c_omplained_. But it did not matter. What mattered was the goal.

Nicol hoped that Athrun would notice as well. He did not wish to boast, in the way that that older trainee –Yzak Jule?–did, but he knew that it would feel nice to meet Athrun's smile again. Maybe praise. Yeah, a bit of praise would be nice…

_Yeah, right_, he would think as he willed, _forced_ his arms to push his weight up off the ground, again, again, again, _as if he'd ever…he's the son of Chairman Zala!_

But _you're _the son of Councilman Amalfi.

_That doesn't mean anything. Not next to Patrick Zala._

Of course it does, imbecile.

_Says you._

Yeah, says me. I'm you!

_What?_

Then he would collapse onto the wooden floor of his dorm and do nothing but breathe for a few deliciously idle minutes. Just breathe, and listen to the other three breathe in quiet sync. _Oh, Good Lord in Heaven, my arms, my back, my legs…_

But it felt good, despite the pain as a constant companion. It felt good to know that he was finally making progress and working himself up the ranks. Already, he was in the top twenty of their batch…but that was not good enough.

_Higher, Amalfi!_

Yes, higher. Only the top ten get special honors…

………...

"He's first again."

"Well, duh, what did you think?"

"Move it! _Move it, jackass!_"

Nicol swerved and dodged the rampaging teen behind him. Silver locks brushed across his face as Ezaria Jule's son stormed to the front of the crowd before the rankings posters. His gaze went up, up into the top ten. Fifth, fourth, third…

Nicol's heart leapt.

_3. Nicol Amalfi_

Joy, joy, joy with sugary toppings and ice cream! He was third! Victory binge time!

_2. Yzak Jule_

_1. Athrun Zala_

And joy for Athrun Zala! Nicol looked round, but he was nowhere in sight. The trainees murmured their unsurprised approbation, dispersing slowly, until only three were left near the board.

"Yzak…"

"No."

"_Yzak._"

"Shut up! Just _shut up_, okay?"

"Hey, I was gonna say congrats, but I guess not…"

"There is not a _damn thing _to _congrats_ about!"

And he left, fuming so hard that there almost seemed to be a trail of smoke in his wake. His companion shrugged, glancing up to the sign, murmuring something that sounded to Nicol like: "Fourth…not bad…" before he departed as well.

Nicol could jump, Nicol could dance, Nicol could squeal like a little schoolgi-…

"Are they gone?"

Nicol _did _jump, although more out of shock than of delight, blushing as though he really had been caught in the act of celebrating his first real victory at the military academy.

The interruption laughed like Athrun Zala.

"You seem happy." He duly remarked, emerging from round a corner. Nicol nodded vigorously. It was not necessary to hide such a thing from Athrun. Surely he could understand his ecstasy.

"I made it in third." Nicol explained modestly, the treble in his quiet tone betraying his elation.

"That's great. Congratulations."

Nicol tipped his upper body forwards in thanks, but his state of mind caused the movement to be abrupt. His back cracked, and he squeaked, and when Athrun laughed, it was irresistible.

A blush covered his blush. A double blush. How much redder can red get?

"Thanks for that." Athrun was saying, making his way towards the posters. "It's been difficult to find entertainment in the past two years."

"Yeah. Yeah, I know…" Nicol spluttered, embarrassed.

"Embarrassed?" Athrun asked, as though having just read the above line. "Don't be. It's…"

It's what? Cool? Fine? Cute?

…never mind.

For the first time, as he watched Athrun's gaze glide up towards the rankings just as Yzak's had, Nicol noticed that his eyes were green. Not the flat, boring green of the lower officers' uniforms (he would not be wearing _that_, of course, 'cause he was _third_, meaning _Elite!_), but a shining, almost exotic kind of green. Green of the fields? No. Green of the sea? No…

Jade green. _Athrun _green.

The entire _meaning_ of green had just been redefined.

But then Nicol's body reminded him that his victory binge was becoming slightly overdue.

"Hey…Athrun…"

"Mm…yeah?"

"The others are already gone. You wanna go eat?"

"…Yeah. Yeah, okay."

"Okay."

"Yeah. Sure."

"Okay."

"Nicol?"

"Yeah?"

"You can stop saying okay."

"Oka-…oh."


	2. Chapter 1 : Rainbow

(A/N: I'm posting the first chapter, just like this right after posting the prologue, because I personally hate reading prologues with nothing after them. ) So here is the first (or second, if one counts the prologue) chapter of **Misanthrope**. Don't know what it means? Look it up, dude.

Again, thanks to Storms-winter. Yowza.

It's so late... I've gotta go to bed. Bed, girl. -trudges-)

* * *

_**Chapter One: Rainbow**_

"Some…wheeere…over the…rainboooow…way…up…_high_…"

It was dark out the window. No rainbow. Where was it?

"There's…a…land that I…heard of…once in a lu-lla-byyyy…"

Skip. Skip. Twirl. Yeesh, that felt _gay, _but nice at the same time, like when he had been a kid. When you are a kid, you are allowed to do things that would make you look gay otherwise. When you are a kid, _gay _takes on its first meaning. Happy. Joyous. Blissfully free!

"Somewhere over the rainbow…skies are blue!"

Not from this angle, they ain't.

"And the dreaaaams…that you dare to dreaaaam…really do come truuuue…"

Footsteps. Ugly, ugly footsteps coming his way. _How dare you interrupt my song! _Nicol stopped his prancing immediately, realizing just how caught up he had been getting in his nonsense dance and nonsense song. It was such an old tune, and it was a wonder that it was still remembered. A strange wonder, really, how humans remembered music and not values…

"Good afternoon."

Nicol saluted mechanically, remembering not to smile. Smiling was considered nice, and in the military, nice meant weak. He did not want to be weak.

"Yes. Good afternoon."

Nicol read respect in the green-clad officer's eyes. He wanted to grin. _Look, Ma, I'm Elite! See how they cower! Roar! Red power forever! _

His thoughts ground to a halt. Screech. Stop. Rewind.

Forever?

His mother had always told him that _never _and _forever _were very strong words, and that they should not be used lightly. _I'll stay with you forever, Mother. _Yeah right. _You'll never make me go to the military! _Pah, sure.

Nicol suddenly remembered why the sky seemed dark outside the small, round window: they had not launched yet.

But what would happen when they _did _launch? They would go to war. The Coordinator troops had been vastly outnumbered since the beginning. Why else would they have rushed half of the teenagers of PLANT into intensive military training, but to serve as cannon fodder to the belligerent Earth Forces?

Nicol whimpered inwardly. He did _not _want to be cannon fodder.

He whispered Athrun Zala's name as he continued the trek towards whoever's quarters he was supposed to rendezvous in. In his calloused right hand he clutched the poor rucksack that had been so cruelly abused one year prior, in the transport where Athrun had touched him for the first time. Athrun. _Athrun. _Athrun Zala. Nicol wondered where he was now. Probably not here. What were the chances? Slim to no—

"Nicol, is that you?"

Insert cardiac arrest here.

"Athrun?"

"The one and only." Athrun teased, falling into step beside him.

Nicol smiled. It was okay to be nice with Athrun. Athrun was not prejudiced against smiling people.

"Well, yeah, you are." Nicol spoke without thinking. "I mean…how many people on PLANT are there named Athrun Zala?"

God. _God,_ that sounded stupid.

"Yeah. Yeah, I guess you're right."

Such a benevolent smile. Thank goodness, his blockheadedness was forgiven.

"So you're assigned to Commander Le Creuset as well?"

"Huh? Oh…yeah."

"My father knows him well." Athrun added, hitching his pack a little higher on his shoulder. "He's a good man, apparently…if not a bit extremist..."

"Aren't…" Nicol lowered his voice as another officer passed, saluting automatically, "…aren't they all?"

"Our superiors? Hm…probably…but then again, war _is _an extremist measure."

"Right or left?"

"Not sure. Both maybe. They collide, you know. It's a vicious circle, so whether you go right or left, it doesn't matter. You end up just running into the other party again."

"That's true." Nicol nodded.

He prided himself on knowing almost exactly what Athrun was talking about. Then Athrun smiled, gently. Oh, _so _gently.

"But, do you really want to be talking politics right now? We're going to be in the thick of it soon anyway. Talk about something else."

Nicol would talk _forever _if Athrun wanted him to. Stretch on, sweet corridor, stretch on…

"What about the other unit members? Do you know who they are?" Nicol asked, fiddling with the battered handle of his bag as well as with his speech. "We can't just be two…"

Athrun's next words were accompanied by a short laugh: "That'd be interesting, if nothing else. No…there are more. Yzak Jule and Dearka Elthman…"

"The sons of the Council members!"

"The same. Why so surprised? You're one too…"

"Sorry."

"Don't apologize. There's another…Rusty. Rusty Mackenzie."

The names forced a nagging _you should know who these guys are _suspicion into Nicol's mind. Jule, Elthman, Mackenzie…

"They're Elite!" said Nicol loudly as the recollection hit him, earning himself a curious stare from yet another passer-by. "Their names were on the top of the roster, right?"

Duh.

"Yeah." Athrun replied, taking no apparent note of his companion's recent feat of dunderheadedness. "We should be glad. Having a strong team is going to be a plus for this ship and unit."

Nicol pondered this last remark so intently that he walked right past Athrun, who had already stopped in front of a seemingly random door. It was shame that he missed the adorably indulgent smile that graced Athrun's lips. Even the next ear-splitting interjection was not enough to jostle him from his thoughts.

"…stuck on some stupid patrol ship, and with _him _too!"

"Oh, the salt of vindictiveness hath been tossed into thy wounds! Don't be so hacked off. It's not like you can do anything about it…"

"That stuck-up, pompous, _arrogant…_"

"Oh, Yzak Jule? I thought you were talking about Athrun…"

Only when Dearka Elthman's shoulder hit the steel-plated wall ("_Whatcha do that for!_") with sufficient force did Nicol's attention shift, just in time for him to be shoved aside by an infuriated someone in red cloth.

"Yzak…!"

Rubbing his arm with an unintelligible curse, Dearka jogged past Nicol, casting him a faintly apologetic glance before catching up to the other fuming teen.

Yzak stopped short as he saw Athrun standing before him in the hall. Even from the angle at which Nicol stood from him, he was able to make out the mask of overt hatred that had hardened Yzak's features.

"Yzak." Athrun spoke calmly, almost amicably.

"Zala." Yzak returned, not quite as amicably.

For the longest time, they simply looked at each other, or rather, Yzak tried to stare Athrun down, wearing an expression much like that of someone trying to win a Meanest Expression contest against a wall.

Then Athrun did the most extraordinary thing.

He smiled.

Yzak lunged for his collar, screaming something so loudly that it could not be heard. Nicol screamed as well – "_Athrun!_" – but it was unnecessary. Athrun fluidly dodged the attack, but Yzak was fast as well. His right elbow thrust out, catching Athrun in the side before Dearka's hand entered the fray, latching itself around Yzak's wrist.

"Yzak! That's enough!"

Yzak glared, but seemed to come to his senses. He jerked himself from Dearka's grip and marched into the adjoining room, the door having just slid open out of its own accord.

"Are you okay?" Nicol asked, his voice high-pitched with worry.

Yzak glared at him as though he had suddenly transformed into his nemesis.

"I'm fine." Athrun answered, much more quietly. "You should go inside."

Gently, _gently_, he reached out, brushing the tips of his fingers on Nicol's upper arm to steer him towards the open door. Nicol complied, and as he did he was wonderfully aware of his thumping heart.

………

Commander Rau Le Creuset was by far the creepiest man that Nicol had ever seen.

Sure, he had heard rumours, and had thought himself fairly certain of what to expect. The mask, among other things. That shining, white avian mask that matched his equally white uniform perfectly. Nicol wondered if he had chosen the two as an outfit on purpose.

He supposed that what disturbed him the most about Rau Le Creuset were his eyes, or lack thereof. Nah, never mind, rewind…just because you cannot _see _them, it does not mean that they are not there. Nicol was able to _feel_ his commander eyes on him, anyway, and that was much more efficient than simply _seeing _them.

"Sight is overrated." Nicol muttered to himself.

And yet we are _oh so _dependant on it.

He sighed and overturned his sack, unceremoniously dumping its meagre contents onto the bed. It was no use being neat when there was no one to see you. He had been given his own room on the ship. Being a member of the crimson Elite did grant him certain favours, like not having to bunk with any of the lower class, and he was grateful for that, but still…

"Athrun Zala." Nicol muttered, staring cross-eyed at his belongings. "And Rusty Mackenzie. Yzak Jule…and Dearka Elthman. _Athrun Zala _and Rusty Mackenzie. Yzak Jule and Dearka Elthman! _Athrun Zala with Rusty Mackenzie and Nicol Amalfi with an empty bed!_"

He turned and sat heavily on the edge of his mattress, pouting childishly towards the opposite side of the room, where the extra sleeping area seemed to mock him from afar. He glared. The bed stood, void of reaction.

Absently and huffily all at once, Nicol got to his feet and meandered about the small room. He brushed his fingertips against the white walls, the white sheets, drummed them on the wooden desk in some nothing rhythm. He thought of his piano, safely nestled in the corner of his house's music room. It was a beautiful instrument: nine feet of black lacquer, gold accents and those wonderful, magical keys that sang – _pling pling pliiiing _- whenever you pressed them down. His father had bought it for him on his fifth birthday. His mother had fretted because her son had refused to part with his new playmate for three days.

He missed his parents. He missed their warmth and their support. He missed those few instants where his mother had pulled him into her arms before their parting, earlier that day, even though the precious moment was tainted by his comrades' snickers in the background.

"I love you, dearest."

"I love you too, Mom. Take care."

He had said: "take care". _Take care. _As though where _she_ was going was far more dangerous than where _he _was. Lord, how his face felt strained, assuming that would-be reassuring smile. His father's face must have felt the same way, judging by the uncomfortable, tangible tautness of his presence.

"We're very proud of you."

Another embrace, though briefer than Mother's. A hand through his son's hair, and his own.

"Be strong."

Nicol had sighed, the rigid grin relaxing somewhat. Take Care, be Strong, they both meant the same thing. A strange peace had wafted over and into him at the correlation. He had accepted Mother's last kiss, Father's last smile, and then he had left.

He had kept on telling himself that they would be safe in PLANT. PLANT was home, and never was one betrayed by one's own home. Never. Never ever. They'll be safe _forever._

Then he would remember, though he would never really forget: Junius Seven was home too. Junius Seven was destroyed. But Junius Seven did not betray humans. No, no, never.

Humans betrayed humans. Humans betray humans. Humans will always be betraying humans, and values, and life.

Only humans killed humans for the sake of doing so.

_I'm only human_. Nicol thought as he exited his lonely dorm room, leaving his things scattered on the bed. _War is human. I am human, so I am War as well._

_Nicol Amalfi is War._

_And Athrun Zala, no matter how enchanting his eyes or how beautiful his laugh, is first and foremost War._

………...

The Nazca-class destroyer Vesaliusgave a fearful lurch, and everything in the world was suddenly set into motion. A wave of fear gushed through Nicol's insides. He clutched onto the handrail of the bridge's top level until his fingers screamed _cramp!_ but the sky was still rushing past insanely, and he only held on harder, gritting his teeth against the panic that threatened to flood out of him in the form of this morning's breakfast.

He thought that it would stop suddenly, like a roller coaster ride that had all but traumatized him in his early childhood. He saw himself, a Nicol of three-feet-something, sobbing brokenly in his mother's arms. He saw himself, a Nicol of five-feet-five (which was not all that tall, he vaguely realized), flying over the handrail to crash brokenly onto the Vesalius'CIC or something.

He braced himself, squeezing his eyes shut despite the desire to seem _a little _brave in his last moments.

The ship slowed, slowed, slowed…and stopped.

No crash.

"Are you okay?"

It was but a murmur in his ear, soft and almost intimate. Nicol forced his eyes open and blinked confusedly, fighting to regain his composure.

"Yes." He breathed, recognizing Athrun Zala's voice with relief, "I just…didn't like that."

Athrun smiled. Nicol's fingers hurt. Their owner pried them from the handrail and rubbed them together, flexing them automatically in order to dispel the stiffness. It made him think of the evil geniuses that he was so scared of when he was but an infant.

He glanced at the back of Commander Le Creuset's blond head. It was quite funny to imagine him rubbing his palms together as he went over his "evil plans". _Yes…soon, the Earth and PLANT in their entirety will be MINE, and not even Patrick Zala and his band of goody-two-shoe bureaucrats can stop me!_

Nicol snorted out loud, attracting questioning stares from his soon-to-be comrades in arms. Even Yzak Jule seemed slightly bewildered for a moment before his pale features turned stony once more. Nicol wanted to roll his eyes. _Well excuuuuse me for rupturing your sacred silence…_

"You may all return to your quarters." Commander Le Creuset informed his newest unit members, from the lower level. "If a battle situation arises, the alarm will be sure to inform you of it."

"Yes sir!"

In unnerving unison, the five members of the Le Creuset team saluted then turned, filing one by one out of the bridge, straight-backed and poised.

Location: blank hallway. Situation: desire to burst out laughing.

"Care to share the joke?"

Nicol's inquisitor was Miguel Ayman, another young soldier, senior to him in age if not in rank. A doubtful, but not entirely unkind half smile played across his lips. Nicol shook his head.

"No…no, it's okay. Just an idiocy."

"Well, just make sure you don't think up any during a fight."

The tone was jovial, the glance stern, and Nicol bowed his head in silent acquiesce. Yzak and Dearka exchanged a derisive, very_ visible_ look, grinning as though having just acquired some secret joke of their own. Embarrassment crept its way into Nicol's being, but he directed his gaze forwards. Never mind the blush, never mind his weird imagination and never mind the trembling in his pianist's hands.

Nicol Amalfi was a soldier now.


	3. Chapter 2 : Cry

(A/N: Ah, so it seems that I have decided to continue this. I guess that I'm just trying to prove that I can actually write multi-chaptered SEED fics. XD But anyway, I'll get straight to it.

Much love for Storms-winter, as usual.

I sobbed during FINAL PHASE again. It replayed last Friday. Yzaaaaaaaak!)

_**Chapter Two: Cry**_

"_But soft! What light through yonder…"_

Bounce.

"…_window breaks? It is the east, and Ju-…"_

Bounce.

"…_-liet is the sun. Arise, fair sun, and kill…_"

Bounce.

"…_and kill the…"_

Bounce.

"…_and KI-…"_

Bounce. Bounce, bounce, bounce.

"DEARKA! Cut that out!"

Thank you, Yzak.

"_What! _I'm not _doing _anything!"

"Don't make me laugh, Dearka. _Put that away._"

"…You can laugh?"

"Wanna see me? _Put. That. AWAY._"

"Neener, neener, _nee_-NER!"

_Neener? _Nicol thought in disbelief as he closed his book with a sigh.

It seemed that Dearka's mentality digressed rather than evolved with age. There he was, floating just out of Yzak's reach, a small rubber ball – his current plaything and partner in antagonism – clutched protectively in his hand. Try as he might, Yzak was simply not able to catch his fellow soldier as he all but ricocheted off the four walls, speeding off in a different direction each time.

"Catch me if you can, girly boy!"

"_DEARKAAAA!"_

Yzak lost no time in ripping off Dearka's strategy, who, seeing his comrade now as an immediate threat to his well-being, made for the common room's door as fast as the non-gravity could take him. Yzak sprang off the opposite wall, baring his teeth like a hunting animal, his uniform flapping like a bloody banner.

Nicol winced upon the sound of impact.

"_Crap! Yzak!"_

They wrestled against the wall for a few moments, until Yzak was finally able to wrench the toy from Dearka's hand. He pulled away, glaring daggers at the ball, then at the young man opposite him. Dearka sighed.

"Now be a good boy, Yzak, and give that back." He cooed. "It doesn't belong to…ow!"

Yzak pushed roughly past him and pounded the door release mechanism.

"Next chance I get, I'm throwing this out into space," he muttered before the door closed behind him.

There was silence for a moment, then Dearka laughed gently to himself, directing himself onto one of the small divans that filled the room.

"Are you sure that's okay?" Nicol asked timidly.

Dearka looked up, seeming surprised at being addressed.

"Huh? Oh, yeah, yeah, it's cool. I've got two more anyway…Yzak hates those things like hell itself."

"No, I mean…is it okay for him to be… _rough _like that with you?"

Dearka laughed again, pushing himself up with his hands so that he floated slowly towards the ceiling.

"Oh…yeah, that's cool too. It's not like we're married or anything. He won't get fined or jailed for beating _me_ up."

"And you're okay with that?"

"Sure. We've been doing the same thing since we were kids. Twelve looooong years…"

He gesticulated meaninglessly in midair for a moment, than buried his ten fingers in his messy, blond hair, sticking the tip of his tongue out in a parody of deep thought.

"Yeah…yeah, he's okay…"

Dearka grinned to himself, giving a short, dog-like chuckle before straightening, propelling himself to the ceiling and shooting back down again.

"…sometimes."

Nicol bit his lip pensively as Dearka left. They had been in space for close to two weeks now and nothing much had happened. Commander Le Creuset had suggested that they spend time getting to know each other, but so far, that had not progressed either.

Yzak Jule had been the first to declare his dislike for Nicol, though not as openly as he declared his _Athrunus_ _animositus_, as Dearka liked to call it: Athrun animosity. Otherwise, he did not speak much. Nicol only heard him complain: There isn't enough space in those stupid dorm rooms. Dearka, get your stuff out of _my _side! _Goddamnit, the food here is horrible!_

Nicol did agree with him on that point, but not on much else.

Dearka was nicer. At least he was able to speak to him without sneering or slipping in pejorative comment after pejorative comment about everything that made Nicol, Nicol. And Dearka actually _smiled. _

Athrun was friendly, albeit distant, at times. Preoccupied. That was the word. His eyes were always slightly misted over with thought whenever he greeted Nicol in the bland halls of the _Vesalius_. He had never dared ask why. It was not any of his business, anyway. It would be rude to just ask, right? At least, that was what Nicol was always telling himself. Maybe it was an excuse. For what? Even he did not know.

He decided that day, as he was re-opening _Romeo and Juliet_, that he admired Athrun Zala, and that this was the reason of his constant worry over him. He also determined, after further reflection, that he cared about Athrun as well, although he was virtually a stranger to him. There was simply something about him that attracted people, attracted _him _in a manner unfamiliar to his inexperienced soul.

Then again, what did Nicol know about admiration? He, who had lived the most sheltered life the PLANTs could offer, with the kindest parents ever known to Coordinator kind (or so he liked to believe). The only people Nicol had ever admired were his parents, and that was normal. He knew nothing of care or idol worship.

Besides, idol worship was weird.

And how could it be possible to care for someone whom one hardly knows? One cares for another for their qualities and faults, their emotions, their reactions, their being and their soul. What did Nicol know of Athrun's qualities, faults, emotions, reactions, being and soul? Nothing. _Hardly anything_, he corrected himself, while absently skimming through the rest of act three. He knew that Athrun was an excellent soldier. He knew that he was kind. He knew that he had beautiful, Athrun-green eyes.

He also knew that it was wrong to think of any part of another boy as _beautiful_, but as this was Athrun, he decided that an exception was in order. Besides, it was difficult to think of him as anything but that. _Cute _was not strong enough; _handsome _not evocative enough; _gorgeous, _a tad _too _evocative. And who ever said that _beautiful _was an entirely feminine adjective, anyway?

So Nicol settled it at that, and sank into a comfortable lethargy, cushioned by the timeless poetry of Shakespeare's work.

The days were oddly slow for the next few weeks, and it certainly did seem as though Yzak had been right about the _Vesalius_: that it _was_ merely a patrol ship, skimming the empty area for a threat that suddenly seemed quite distant. Who would be able to find them anyway, nestled deep in their pocket of space?

Finally, boredom had hit the entire crew with full force. Green-clad soldiers yawned in the halls, saluted each other and their superiors with greatly restrained enthusiasm, as if to conserve their energy for the coming fights that did not seem to be coming. Even Commander Le Creuset had become less intense than Nicol had first perceived (though one could never really be sure), spending his days on the bridge, surveying the radar over the underclassmen's shoulders or biding his time in his quarters.

The moment that Nicol started wondering what he was doing in there, he decided that it was time to do something, _anything_, because surely no one enjoyed entertaining thoughts of what Rau Le Creuset did during his free time.

Remembering the piteously failed marksmanship exam of his first year in the ZAFT military, he headed out across a few halls to the shooting range, saluting the occasional nameless passer-by. Nicol never really got to know any of the other crew members. Somehow, he felt a bit more comfortable around the members of his own unit, the other four Elites. Perhaps it was because they were more his own age.

It occurred to him, as he was loading his weapon and placing the special, military-issue earmuffs on himself, that he was the youngest soldier in the whole ship, maybe even in that batch of the ZAFT army. The closest in age to him was probably Athrun, who had turned sixteen a few months prior, then Yzak, Dearka and Rusty, who were all seventeen. Nicol was fifteen. Somehow, fifteen did not seem like a very nice num—

_BANG!_

_Damn! _He had forgotten how loud a fired shot sounded. Perhaps it would be better to actually think about shooting _while_ he was shooting.

Shortly after putting this plan into action, however, Nicol realized that he was faring no better. Sure, his skills had improved since the academy, but for some reason he never did feel good enough, and to be frank, the thought of actually firing a gun towards someone, a living, breathing individual, scared him out of his wits.

Three missed shots. Four missed shots.

_It's just a dummy_. Nicol thought, trying to be severe with himself, but knowing that he was failing. _Shoot it. Just shoot it. It's not going to shoot you back, for God's sake, so just shoot it!_

Five missed shots.

Six.

He swore, but the word just felt so dirty in his mouth that he regretted it immediately. He wanted to cry, but he knew that it would feel just as bad. He was a soldier now. He could not, would not, _absolutely must not_.

Nicol placed the weapon back on the shelf behind him, placed the earmuffs there too, and saw that his hands were trembling. They looked so pale and thin to him, taut like a pianist's hands should be. He tried to grip the metal shelving, but his fingers would not tighten, would not curl, would not obey, and he sobbed. He bowed his head low until it reached his hands and then he cried, knowing that he should not, _must not_, but his body did not care anymore for his trivial values.

It was useless. He was useless. He could not hold a gun straight, could not shoot, could not even keep his boyish tears inside when he needed to be strong. For the first time in his life, Nicol _needed _to be strong. He needed to be great, to be excellent, to be deserving of the genes he carried within every fibre of him. To be a Coordinator. He needed to be a Coordinator, a ZAFT soldier, a defender of the PLANTs' cause, an ally of the High Council's justice. He had to be _strong_, but he could not, or would not, for some reason that he did not understand. No, he did know, he did understand… he wanted to be back home. Back with Mother and Father and his piano. Back to his selfish, sheltered life. Back to way things were before. Back to _then_.

But _then_ would not come back. _Then _was gone. There was only _now_, and _later_. _Tomorrow._

It was his job to make sure that there would be a _tomorrow_, and not another Junius Seven.

And yet, the tears still fell.

And then there were steps behind him. Frantic, panicking, ashamed, Nicol wiped his face roughly on his crimson uniform sleeve, leaving a trail of salt water on the thick fabric. He rubbed his palms down the front of his lapels, straightening the creases that had formed as he had bent over, and was preparing to leave when a voice called out.

"…Nicol?"

It was close. It was Athrun. _God, no, it's Athrun._

"Nicol?" Athrun repeated, and Nicol felt him draw closer.

_No, no, no no no. Not here. Not now._

"A-Athrun…"

"Nicol… have you been crying?"

"N-No! Of course not! I can't…"

Then Nicol was turning around. He was running, running away, running away _from_ _Athrun_, like he was a criminal and Athrun was his judge.

Athrun caught him by the arm. Nicol twisted, pleaded, told him 'No, Athrun, I have to go,' but Athrun held him by the shoulders, both shoulders, and let him spill more tears onto his collar.

Nicol felt stupid. He felt like the stupidest little Coordinator child ever created, crying onto this young man's – _young man's_ – shoulder. Him, a boy, just a boy, a boy who been handed a gun, knowing what they wanted him to do with it but not knowing what to do with it.

Still, he cried. He found that he enjoyed crying. He enjoyed being a child for a while, despite the shame in his gut, despite the look of disgust that he would surely receive once he lifted his head.

After a few moments, he was finished. No more crying, time for the shame. But it did not come. Not from Athrun. Nicol expected Athrun to shift, to fidget, to show awkwardness, to push him away. But he did not. Why?

_Why, Athrun?_

"Why… Athrun?" He murmured into his uniform collar, feeling the other's firm hands still on his shoulders, feeling every one of his fingers just slightly denting the fabric.

Athrun sighed. It was not a sad sigh, or an impatient sigh, or a disgusted sigh. Just a breath.

"You were crying. I couldn't just… let you do that."

"Soldiers… aren't supposed to cry, Athrun. I'm not _supposed _to…"

"I don't care about that," Athrun cut off, uncharacteristically sharp, then softening again, just as quickly. "Nicol… you… cry if you want, okay?"

"Why?"

"It's better that way. Trust me."

So warm. He was so warm, and Nicol just wanted to lean in farther, to melt against him, to…

_No._

_Not allowed._

Slowly, painfully, Nicol drew himself away, and as he lifted his eyes he saw that Athrun's were surprised. But he let him go, and they were standing before each other, Nicol looking up a little because Athrun was a couple of inches taller than him.

"Are you okay now?" Athrun asked quietly, concern shading his eyes a darker green.

Nicol nodded, curling his arms around himself as he took a few deep breaths, closing his eyes, and when he opened them Athrun was smiling so fondly that Nicol was startled.

"A-Athrun?"

"Oh… sorry. I must look weird…"

"No, of course not. What were you…?"

"I was… thinking about someone. Someone I used to know. He used to cry a lot. He cried all the time."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"And I guess…" Nicol paused, not wanting to sound too daring, to intrude, "I guess… you were always there to help him, huh?"

"Yeah. Always. Since ever…" Athrun trailed off, his words fading in a breath, and he sighed again, turning away slightly to cast his gaze to the opposite wall.

They remained that way for long moments, until Nicol just had to sniff and Athrun just had to grin, and as he was apologizing and Nicol was telling him it was all right, the dinner bell rang from the mess hall, and they made their way there together.

They had not eaten together since the academy, and Nicol was glad that at least one person would not scorn him for being sensitive and actually acknowledging his feelings.

Nicol could not help wondering why Athrun's opinion meant so much to him. It just seemed right that Athrun be the one to comfort him, to tell him that it was okay to cry, even if you were a boy and even if you were a soldier.

He could not help wondering how he felt about Athrun.

He could not help wondering how Athrun felt about him.

But it was absurd. It was crude and wrong and forbidden, so he discarded the thought as he discarded his dinner tray, and went straight to bed.

But sleep did not come easy that night.


	4. Chapter 3 : Heliopolis

A/N: I'm-a back! And with another super special awesome chapter of **Misanthrope** to boot! Now somebody please punt me for quoting Yu-Gi-Oh: The Abridged Series. -.-0

Have I mentioned how fun it is to write this thing? Because it is. Because it's actually an amusing story, despite all the dire "war is bad" themes. And because Carmen hearts Nicol.

Once again, I'd like to thank my super special awes-... I mean very nice and helpful beta reader Storms-winter, for being so very nice and helpful despite the fact that she forgot to attach the file to her email the first time. :)

Please review intelligently, or else countless people on the Internet will despise you.

End author's useless rant.

* * *

_Chapter Three: Heliopolis_

"…complete waste of the military's time! If the information isn't correct, then don't give it, damnit! Stupid, incompetent_…_what the hell were they thinking, sending us out without even verifying…"

The voice faded around the corner, and though the information that it provided was scarce, Nicol knew immediately that it was Yzak Jule, and that he, surprisingly, shared his sentiments on the matter.

The day before, word has reached the Vesalius that the Earth Alliance Forces had begun construction of a military satellite in the proximity of Lagrange point 3. Perhaps not a wise choice of location, considering the relative gravitational instability of L3, and though some of the more vindictive members of the ZAFT military and High Council doubted the Naturals' ability to actually construct something in such an unsteady area, it had been voted that the Le Creuset team and the Vesaliusshould investigate nonetheless.

And of course, after all of the preparations made, the rushing and scrambling about, it would seem natural that a bit of faulty Intel should be enough to dampen the spirits of many.

Though in Yzak Jule's case, they seemed to flare instead.

"…look, Yzak, the only way that they _could _have verified the information is if _we _were sent there!"

"Oh, yeah? Why can't they get some stupid patrol ship to do it instead, huh?"

"Yzak… _God_, just get over it."

"_What did you say?_"

Nicol could tell that Yzak was pacing up and down the hall – ­as effectively as anyone can pace in non-gravity, anyway – by the way his loud, angry voice kept on swelling then fading, though its intensity never wavered. He could also tell that Dearka was doing his best, as usual, to calm the other's nerves, and was, also as usual, not having much of an effect.

Nevertheless, Nicol found himself strangely lethargic after their useless sortie, and was just about to drop off, curled over the starched bed sheets, when Yzak bounced violently into his room, still muttering curses as he floated his way to the adjacent bathroom.

"Yzak!"

Nicol sat up as Dearka entered as well.

"Sorry," said the second intruder immediately, as Yzak furiously pounded the door-release mechanism, sealing the bathroom closed, "When he gets this pissed, he always needs to go to the bathroom. You know, to… take a piss or something…"

"Yeah… okay…"

The words _Too Much Information _struck his conscious mind with a mean right hook, but he managed to swallow the need to voice them.

Nicol had noticed that Dearka seemed to be making somewhat of an effort to be kind to him, probably due to the fact that Yzak seemed to be making somewhat of an effort to be even nastier to him, as of late. Try as he might, Nicol simply could not understand what he had done to arouse the other's ire. He had followed his instinct and stayed out of his way, had not tried to start any conversations, hell, had not even dared sharing the same table as him in the mess hall. And yet, it seemed inevitable, ridiculously _preordained _that Yzak should hate his guts.

"You coming?"

"Huh? Why?"

Dearka, his hand already on the room's door switch, jerked his chin towards the ceiling, where a speaker was spewing out in a mechanical voice: "… _the Le Creuset team, report to Commander Le Creuset's office immediately… I repeat, the Le Creuset team, report to Commander Le Creu-…_"

A resounding curse was heard from behind the bathroom door.

"The commander's office?"

"…_office… I repeat, the Le Creuset team…_"

"Guess so. Shall we?"

"But what about Yzak?"

"_Damnit!_"

"… _to Commander Le Creuset's office…_"

"Aw, he can take care of himself. He's potty-trained and everything."

"I heard that! Come here so I can…"

"…_report to Commander's Le Creuset's…_"

………

Commander Le Creuset's headquarters were coldly formal, quite a contrast from the warm tone of voice he always used. Nicol could not help but shiver as he surveyed the white metal sheet wall ahead of him, very carefully commanding his body to stillness. Not even a finger could be allowed the tiniest bit of movement. He had been shoved around far too many times during military school for such a thing to forget it so quickly.

The commander himself was sitting as his desk as the five of them stood in a row before him. Dearka was at Nicol's left. Rusty's red hair caught his eye at his right. Glancing towards him from the corner of his eye, Nicol reflected that he had not interacted much with him since the beginning of their imprisonment aboard the Vesalius… in fact, he did not believe that he had ever interacted with him _at all_.

Rusty Mackenzie… he was most likely the son of some High Council member by the name of Mackenzie. What other reason did they have to have all been placed under this man's command?

…other than the fact that they were the most skilled of the ZAFT Reds, of course.

_Initiating ego inflation_. _Beep._

The commander nodded gently, as though in response to some private acquiesce, then stood and faced the five young soldiers for the first time since their orderly entry. Nicol felt himself involuntarily stiffen as the man studied each of them in turn, and it seemed, to his inconveniently paranoid mind, that his masked gaze lingered on _his_ figure the longest.

Finally, the commander spoke, and Nicol could not help but let loose a breath of relief.

"I have called you all here to bestow upon you your first, _true _mission."

He waited until a thick, most appropriate tension had settled upon the group before moving to the front of the desk. The glassy, seemingly sightless eyes of his mask gleamed in the fluorescent light.

"The information regarding our assignment at Lagrange point 3 has proven faulty, as you all know. However, as I was filing the report towards the High Council, I received word from one of our spies concerning the colony known as Heliopolis."

Nicol's brows creased with doubt. Heliopolis was a neutral colony, housing nothing but the numerous families who wished to avoid the war. It had nothing to do with the military, so why…

"You must be wondering why our forces would bother with something as trivial as a neutral colony," Commander Le Creuset continued, seeming to thoroughly enjoy keeping them in suspense, as far as Nicol was concerned. "Well, this certain spy has just recently forwarded some very interesting information to the Council. It seems that the Earth Alliance Forces are using Heliopolis as a base for mobile suit construction."

A tremor of surprise ran through the line. The combined emotion of the five boys seemed to chill the room as effectively as a blast of cold air come directly from space.

"The Council suggests that we act quickly," the commander kept on briskly. "The Le Creuset team is to infiltrate Heliopolis tomorrow to capture the five mobile suits, five units known as the GAT-X series. You will each be assigned to one of the units, and will be responsible for bringing it safely out of the base and onto the Vesalius, which will be standing by."

He fixed each of the young soldiers in a steady gaze, indiscernible from behind the mask, and smiled.

"You must have been fretful these past few weeks," said Commander Le Creuset in a tone of slight condolence, "and with good reason. I assure you all, this is the perfect opportunity to put the skills you have developed to work. Do not disappoint me."

"Yes sir!" they chimed automatically.

"Report to the briefing room tomorrow at 0400. Dismissed."

………

Nicol felt like he had slept through the entire briefing.

As he clambered into the pod that he would be sharing with three other members of the ZAFT army, snatches of that morning's meeting returned to him.

They would be stuffed into pods in groups of four and launched into the supposedly neutral colony of Heliopolis.

They would land.

They would steal the Earth Forces mobile suits.

They would get the hell out of there.

They would not damage the colony or harm its citizens in any way (or in the least ways possible, at any rate).

Okay.

That seemed doable.

The other three soldiers were murmuring amongst themselves.

"Hey, do you think we'll get to step on some of the Naturals and say it was an accident?"

Nicol had no intention whatsoever of stepping on Naturals.

Mechanisms clicked and whirred. Alarms and last minute instructions sounded. Everyone braced themselves against the walls of the pod. _Bracing for what? Are we gonna drop? OH GOD NO, they're gonna drop us!_

They dropped.

Centuries later, they landed with a dull thud on the colony's surface. The pods cracked open and they floated out one by one, grabbing the metal struts protruding from the metal sheets. As Nicol pushed himself out from his pod, last of all four soldiers, he could not help but imagine Commander Le Creuset staring down at them from afar, like some white-beaked sentinel, making sure they did not screw up. Like _God,_ looking down upon the desolation from above.

Le Creuset. _God. _The thought made him suffocate with the unpleasantness.

Athrun gestured to them all from a gaping, man-made hole in the outer surface of the colony, where red lasers crisscrossed within the opening. Athrun looked at his watch, stared at it, and as though on command, the thing beeped and the lasers suddenly died, leaving the passage free. Their savvy shipmates had done their job.

In unison, they kicked off of whatever surface they could and launched themselves into the tunnel. The walls were unlit and soon they lost the little light they had. With a nervous jerk of his hand, Nicol lit the tiny flashlight at the end of his rifle and used it to point the way.

The hallway seemed interminable, every linoleum panel identical to the last. Athrun was watching the little holographic map on his wrist. He seemed totally at ease, and despite his troubled state, Nicol could not help but feel the familiar jolt of admiration.

To think that Athrun was even capable of directing others in such a dire situation…to think that, if there had never been a war, Athrun would have been able to do something _else_, something more humanitarian and just with his abilities. They _all _could have.

But there was war, and they were in it.

Suddenly, Athrun was beside him, or maybe he was beside Athrun, having gravitated towards him in the midst of his beginnings of a nervous breakdown.

"This is doable, right?" Nicol whispered to Athrun, desperate for some friendly reassurance, and too late he remembered that his head was encased in the ZAFT military space helmet and everyone had just heard his last words via the very handy communication device. A few of the soldiers sniggered around him, and if at all possible, Nicol began to suffocate even more vehemently. It was becoming extremely tempting to try and swallow the communication device and see if he could induce a deadly choking fit.

"Of course it's doable," said Athrun over the helmet radio, gracefully ignoring the jeers around them. "Anything is doable. This is what we were trained for, Nicol. Now it's time to just do it."

"Y-Yeah. Okay."

"Good."

They had stopped above a metal grille, and as Nicol looked down he was near-blinded by the bright lights coming from within. There, clearly visible, was a massive ship. _A warship._

Around him, the soldiers, red and green alike, made low, grim sounds. It was apparent now what the spy had reported. Heliopolis was no longer neutral.

Athrun gazed down through the floor for a long time, and the others did not say a word as he did, assuming, perhaps, that he was assessing the situation in a purely commanding officer-like way. But through the gleam of the light on Athrun's visor, Nicol saw the boy's face change into an expression of deep sorrow and even deeper regret.

Then Nicol blinked. The look was gone from Athrun's features, replaced by the usual static serious face that such times required.

Athrun lowered his arm and gestured sharply: the signal to move out.

_Operation Heliopolis commenced._

………

At the intersection marked by the grille, they separated on Athrun's command. The ZAFT greens headed off on their own, Nicol knew, to place bombs at strategic places around the white ship's dock. The Elite soldiers floated further down the dark hall, keeping together, guns at the ready, though the only likely thing they could encounter in this place was space dust.

The greens joined them along the way thanks to the complicated series of tunnels riddling this part of the colony. Their spy had done his work well and had been able to supply them with maps of the entire complex.

It seemed to Nicol that time had suddenly gotten very short as they rushed down the next passage, gliding effortlessly towards their destination. The bombs had been set for ten minutes…they had to infiltrate the place _after _the bombs' explosion…what else was he forgetting?

_BREEEN, BREEEN, BREEEN_.

_Holy shi– _Oh, that. It was just the alarm signalling the unlawful approach of ZAFT vessels.

They sped on as the next step in the plan unfolded, and the alarm urged them forward.

After a few minutes, gravity returned to the passage and the company continued on foot before emerging into blinding sunlight. Nicol had never been more grateful for artificial sun.

They had surfaced on a small cliff a ways from the actual Earth Forces military base. It was in plain sight, with a line of carrier trucks working its way into one of the larger buildings. They all looked like ordinary buildings. Nicol realized that perhaps even the civilian inhabitants of the colony had no idea what was going on behind those walls.

The alarm sound was faint up here. Nicol wished he could just stay on that little cliff forever, instead of launching himself headfirst into some stupid mission to filch some stupid mobile suits for his stupid army. He could live here, on his own. He could make a hut out of branches and leaves and harvest wild berries for food. After all, he _had _learned how…_oh, who am I kidding?_

Yzak had trailed a binoculars' gaze down towards the advancing trucks, and with a little sneer, proclaimed: "It's exactly as Commander Le Creuset said."

"What, that with the right amount of prodding they're sure to come out of their hole?" Dearka answered with his usual lightness.

Nicol remembered that line. He had shivered upon hearing it.

Yzak was making some tasteless jest about the Naturals' lack of intelligence, but Nicol no longer listened. He looked down at the green, peaceful country, the clean shine that the military base's roofs gave off in the sun. He felt the heavy realness of the gun in his hands. Soon, he would have to point this gun at someone, a real, _living _someone. Soon, he might have to shoot that real living someone. He might have to kill him.

It occurred to him that if he killed anyone today, he might cry.

To stop himself from crying _now, _he looked up to where Athrun was standing, also looking out to the distance. Nicol wondered what he was thinking, if he regretted the possibility that they might have to take lives today.

_Of course he does. Any good person would. And Athrun is good…_

…_right?_

In a whoosh of air and power, the scheduled GINNs burst from another passage and sped towards the buildings to begin their assault. Yzak immediately rattled off the coordinates of the district where the carrier trucks were headed.

"_Roger. That's showing 'em, Yzak. That didn't take ya long._"

Yzak gave an ominous snigger at Miguel's praising transmission, and they all watched as ZAFT's mobile suits began to bombard the indicated area. Nicol bit his lip at the scene. Billowing smoke clouds were already rising up into the fabricated atmosphere.

It was their move now. Their ZAFT-made jetpacks carried them across the green valley. Nicol had used to think that their jetpack thingies were cool, but now they were only tools used to destroy this other part of their race.

"Intel indicates five…are the two others inside?" Yzak asked as they made their way down. He indicated the three trucks, currently under assault by the GINNs.

"Rusty and I will continue," Athrun instructed. "Yzak, you and the others take these three."

_You and the others. _That meant that Nicol had to stay outside while Athrun went inside. Boo.

"Okay, go for it. If you're piloting one, deactivate the self-destruct system first," Yzak added in his and Dearka's direction, although if Nicol had not been there, it would not have made any difference.

They floated down to the military complex and landed amidst the turmoil. The _clatter-clatter _of machine guns drew their attention. Already they were in the thick of it. With the agility granted him by his Coordinator genes and military training, Nicol ducked behind a turned over jeep and fired towards the nearest threat. There was a yell of pain, and the shots assaulting him ceased. He let out a painful breath.

_My first kill._

_Oh no. Oh God. My first kill._

………

They had been fighting for a while. Athrun and Rusty had long since disappeared into the hangar, along with half of the ZAFT greens of the company. They were edging their way towards the carriers, taking out any surviving soldiers. The shots became fewer and fewer. Nicol was weirdly grateful for the distraction the ships were providing outside. That way, there were fewer soldiers to stop them from actually taking the mobile suits, and that meant less people to kill.

Nicol reached the farthest carrier and gazed up to his assigned mobile suit, the GAT-X207, codenamed Blitz.

_Hello Blitz, my name's Nicol. Nice to meet you. I know we've just met, but I'm going to steal you now, if that's okay._

He scaled the carrier with one boost from his jetpack and landed unsteadily on the mobile suit's chest plate. A hidden mechanism on the edge of the plate opened the chest cavity, and he hopped inside, settling into the pilot's seat with a squirm.

The screens and controls were new and shiny. The cockpit even had a new cockpit kind of smell, sort of like a new car smell, but without the pleasant new leather aroma. Come to think of it, his father had gotten a new car just before Nicol had left for his second year at the ZAFT academy. They had all ridden in it on the way to the shuttle, and Nicol had spent those few luxurious moments just sitting back and breathing in the leather and other new car stuff smell. He had always liked that smell, and now that he thought of it, it was kind of a weird inclina– _hey, _fighting a war, here! _Focus!_

Slapping his meandering thoughts away, Nicol pulled out the keyboard and set to work on the OS, to deactivate the suit's obligatory self-destruct system. Via the communication system, Yzak and Dearka were exchanging news. Nicol let his fingers and brain do the work automatically as he listened to their chatter and his gaze wandered to view of the outside, visible on three of his monitors. Yzak and Dearka's mobile suits were rising from their carriers like undead rising from their graves in a corny horror movie.

System. Access. Deactivate this for me, please. Won't you? I'll be your best friend. Thank you. Please wait.

"And Nicol?"

Huh? 

"Oh…not yet…almost there." Another prompt had barged into the main screen, necessitating another feat of hacking. Tap-tap-tap. Done.

"Okay."

Nicol gripped the main controls, and for one terrifying second, he could not remember how to operate a mobile suit. But then his hands moved out of their own accord and his own machine rose from its carrier to join the other two in a standing position. Oh the wonders of painful, repetitive military training.

"Where are Athrun and Rusty?" Yzak demanded on the communication line. Both him and Dearka showed up on Nicol's other monitors. He saw Dearka give a non-caring _as if we know _shrug as Yzak uttered a sound of annoyance.

"Taking their time, huh? Well, whatever, I don't think they'll have any trouble. We'll stick to the plan and get these three back, got it? Get them back to Commander Le Creuset before they get damaged."

Yzak, with his usual impatience, was the first to launch his mobile suit into the air, shortly followed by Dearka and Nicol.

_Athrun…where are you?_

"…an…own…"

"What?"

"The communications line is screwy…"

"I know that, stupid! Athrun, Rusty! Where are you? We have to go!"

"We ha…man down…sty…"

"Athrun!"

"Rusty's down! Taking the GAT-X303 now!"

What? 

"Repeat, Rusty is down!"

"No way…" Dearka murmured.

"Get back here!" Yzak shrieked suddenly, causing both Nicol and Dearka to cringe away from the devices in their helmets. "_Get back here!_ We have to get back to Commander Le Creuset, _now_!"

Static.

A scream of rage.

A whispered word.

"_Kira_."

Kira? 

"Athrun! What happened?" That was Miguel now, responding to the earlier transmission. He sounded tense, far less joyous than just a few minutes ago.

There was a heavy silence over the radio, and then Athrun said, "Rusty failed. The other machine has been boarded by an Earth Forces officer."

Panicking, breath catching, Nicol turned his attention from the radio to the monitors. Several buildings were spewing smoke; jeeps and bits of equipment littered the roads. And on the ground…

On the ground, people were running.

For one second, Nicol tried to convince himself that they were just military personnel from the base, trying to save their skins. But the closer he looked, the more ordinary these people seemed. They were not wearing uniforms of any sort. Some looked like teachers, others like students.

Students. _Children._

_Oh God. The civilians. We weren't supposed to hurt them. Why are they here?_

The ground exploded and screams erupted from everywhere. The _people_ were screaming, running for their lives. _They're innocent, why are they involved?_

_Why? WHY?_


End file.
